


interlude/infatuation

by toro (sapoeysap)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Navel-Gazing, Reflection, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapoeysap/pseuds/toro
Summary: winter break, wherein george spends time trying not to be removed from everything.there are varying degrees of success in this method.
Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell
Comments: 22
Kudos: 58





	interlude/infatuation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [culpepr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/culpepr/gifts).



> for ellie, for making me cry to songs and ponder feelings i thought were old acquaintances that i had forgotten. 
> 
> there are references to dealing with anxiety. they are very mild, but I want to make note of them here. 
> 
> this is a work of fiction. please do not presume I believe anything here to be real. And please do not share this work outside of ao3.  
>   
> [playlist for interlude infatuation](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLXmmD28EX8jDfFUD4knJCjgRyAePbl-wk)

He wonders how many times he can get fucked over by his own thoughts, as they run out too far in front of him, and his heart trails behind limp on the ground. Pulsating weak beats as his soul catches up.

No one knows, the way he feels, split in two, cored open by someone else.

He wants to look the world in the eyes and have them say ‘you did everything you could’, and instead of sympathy when he in return replies ‘everything wasn’t good enough’, he would just receive support. Instead of the world looking him in the eyes, George wants to trade it all for the warm brown of Alex’s eyes. He’d give anything, for Alex to be the one saying, ‘you did everything you could’ and George knows he would reply with the full truth. ‘I did, and it wasn’t good enough for the world, but was it good enough for you?’ George never allows himself that discretion.

When they were young, driving karts around looping tracks as competitors for shitty trophies and no glory beyond a bottle of fizzy cola as a reward. Alex had asked George for his autograph. This chubby kid, with a round face and big eyes. In the shade of an umbrella away from the oppressive heat of the tarmac and another British summer heatwave the country doesn’t know how to cope with.

‘I want you to sign this’

It’s a ratty piece of paper, might even be a receipt.

‘So, when you get into f1 I have your autograph’

George laughs, Alex is older than him, not that equates wisdom. And Alex, with those two extra years is a better driver, already they say scouts are looking at him. This is the first time; George says something different than what his brain is feeling to Alex. Because he wants to say ‘we will be in f1 together, I couldn’t imagine karting without you’.

Instead his mouth say’s ‘yeah sure, but give me yours in return’

He wonders, where the paper Alex had torn so delicately in half, with Alex’s shitty unpractised first attempts at a signature, has gotten too. If it is hidden in a box in his room buried away. What a weird scrap of a thing to long after. He wonders if Alex had kept his half, with George’s neater more practised signature delicately written.

Such silly childhood dreams, he wishes he had written them off. As just that. Sometimes, and he hates himself for doing so. In the black of the night he berates himself for chasing his dream so hard. A slideshow of all the forks in the road he had gotten too and had chosen the path of karting and single seat racing, chasing a boy who was losing his chubby cheeks and gaining height. Is it worth all the sacrifices and the childhood he denied himself, to be sat in a car that limps along, just for a tiny possibility he might get a shot at the big boys car. No one point out, the way he won f2 last year, especially not himself, because he thinks that might be the thought that breaks him. Like he peaked to early and too high.

George lies in bed, with his misery and a phone devoid of messages because Alex and Lando are so preoccupied with media duties and team-mates that care, to text him and say. ‘Happy winter break’

December threatens in his mind, a tease of a Mercedes, the promise of a ‘if you try hard enough this could be yours’. He wants to shout, ‘this is hard enough, I am giving it my all’, but instead he buries his head down in the cockpit and lets his driving do the talking. He’s not one for shouting. Not one for ripping his throat cords raw with anger. A simmer is better than a boil. Things will get better; they have to get better.

They look pretty, the fireworks on the waterfront. George wonders how they would have reflected in his sunglasses. He doesn’t watch them from the waterfront. Chooses to sit in his hotel room far away and watches footage of fireworks on his phone screen. Everything in him screams anxiety. For what he’s not sure.

Where the anxiety thrums under his skin, becomes a part he quickly adapts to. Just another challenge that he has to overcome. He doesn’t quite beg William’s medics for anxiety medication, just politely asks them to look into it when they get back to the UK. Lets the anxiety stick with him at the back of his mind, lurking in his thoughts. He’s not even sure what he’s anxious about, its just there sucking him up. The sunglasses hide the bags under his eyes, its okay when he’s in the car, back to scooting around the track in the lumbering Williams. Seeps back into him as he lays in bed that night.

The Mercedes is amazing, it’s a taste of what can be. Something to push him, a new motivation to keep him buzzing through winter break. The anxiety goes. Like it wasn’t there at all. It’s replaced by a drive under his skin. So close to the anxiety, but different. More crystallised. He’s tasted success with championships before, can taste success with the thrumming of the world championship winning car underneath his feet.

George finds himself in London. With a new outlook on life.

He refuses to be petulant, to act like a child throwing toys out of the pram. Goes for dinner with Nicholas when the Canadian is in town. There’s more dynamic between them, Robert was nice. But they’d never raced before, no history in the way him and Nick have. George knows he shouldn’t tell what is his now teammate and therefore biggest enemy, but he finds himself apologising to Nicholas, for the way Williams might treat him, the dynamic of first and second drivers. How they’ve ended up one of the youngest and least experienced teams on the grid.

Latifi looks at him from across the table, half drunk beer perspiring next to his plate.

‘I don’t think I’m the one you need to apologise too’

George finds himself laughing, ‘Your right’

He calls Robert the next day, has to get his number from a press officer. Funny that in a year as teammates, they had never swapped numbers.

Robert laughs as well. Seems lighter down the phone line then he ever did in person. Say’s its okay, its then that George knows Robert was never mad at him. 

‘More just a shitty series of events George. But it was good to come back. I did that for me’

It’s a moment of honesty. They meet up for lunch before Robert leaves England and the misery of William's behind. Seems fitting that Robert is the first person to tell him ‘Have a good winter break, when your fighting for championships, think of me.’ The Pole says it wistfully, but George knows there’s no heat behind it. Just all missed connections. George’s knows that for so long his fear and problems had been tied up in the idea that he’s stuck in a slow car languishing his talent, that he’s just a drop in the ocean of drivers with forgettable names and forgettable impacts. He looks at Rob, a forgettable name in a forgettable sea of drivers. Except the man opposite him at the table had achieved so much more than George could ever dare. And in ways George hopes he never has to achieve. Rob waves goodbye with his bad arm, and George hasn’t focused his eyes on it for a long time, so used to the scars, but it’s the last thing he sees of his former teammate. An overcoming. Finally, stable after so much trauma. It feels heroic.

Silly things, that meeting kicks things into action. For the first time all year, everything feels like it genuinely is going to be okay. He isn’t lying to anyone or making hollow comments to press that he believes that they will get the pace or whatever bullshit he can think of. He knows a big draw for the team is how well he handles the press.

Lando sends him a text, **_at family home come hang for the weekend like the old days_**

And hell, he and Lando are close but George isn’t quite sure what old days Lando is referring.

He goes anyways, buys Lando a Christmas present (An atrocious bucket hat/beanie combo he had seen walking past Mankind) wraps it in brown paper and string (enjoys the irony in this little bit of planet saving considering his career). Lando’s family house is big, reeks of money. Funny that the Norris kids are so down to earth. Oliver greets him at the door and shouts for Lando up the stairs. They both know Lando isn’t coming any time soon, so George wanders through the house to where he knows Lando’s bedroom is.

George knocks, more out of courtesy than anything else.

Lando shouts something like ‘I’m coming Oliver two secs alright’ but its half mumbled.

When George opens the door though, the sight in front of him hurts somehow. In a way that might put a stop to all his Winter motivation.

Lando and Alex are sat on the bed, facing each other on their knees. Lando’s the one facing the door, he’s the person who sees George enter. George doesn’t like the guilt that crosses his friends face, or the arm that’s on Alex’s shoulder.

‘God sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll give you two a minute’

He backs out of the room and leans against the corridor wall. It must have been nothing.

A mirage. The way they had sat opposite each other on the bed. Lando looked so guilty, hair mussed. George doesn’t even think his eyes have detailed the whole scene. Barely enough time to clock everything that had appeared in front of him. Killer, that it shouldn’t even affect him. He’s not anyone’s and no one is his. But he’d seen a hand on Lando’s thigh, and it’s a gut punch how much he wishes that hand was on his thigh instead. He almost feels a phantom touch. The anxiety is crawling in again, the medic team had sent him to a counsellor. But they’d only had one meeting so far, and this moment he feels woefully unprepared for the sudden desperate hole trying to claw its way out of him.

‘You need to practice breathing in these moments of anxiety George.’ She had said, with a smile that bordered on condescending. But how is he meant to breathe. Why is this affecting him in this way.

There’s a hand on his face.

Lando’s stupid curls are in his vision.

‘George come in your fine you weren’t interrupting you wierdo’

Maybe he makes up the way Alex face looks, guilty. It’s not a look he see’s often. So how is he to know.

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Otherwise I would have brought your present as well’

He doesn’t even have a present for Alex, no idea what he would buy. What would convey all the emotions he hasn’t himself sorted through. What say’s ‘I think I might be in love with you but I’m not sure what love is?’.

Lando’s saying something about ‘oooh present for me – gimmie’ and snatches the package out of George’s hand.

George is too busy trying to pull his eyes away from Alex to notice Lando grabbing the present.

‘I mean it’s not as good as my Rossi collection, but I like this George. Oh lets go live!’

And George has to compose himself because Lando’s twitch stream is nothing but sizeable and he can’t be seen in some limbo of infatuation over Alex Albon. Especially not in a format that can be screen-capped and distorted forever. Like the fireworks in Abu Dhabi, he doesn’t want to realise what he’s missing out on through a phone screen. Doesn’t want to realise that maybe this limbo is not off infatuation but in fact love.

The stream is stupid, helmed by shaky cam Norris himself, now clad resplendently in ugly bucket hat beanie combo. George has no recollection of what he actually does. But they last about fifteen minutes before even Lando admits they should spend some time by themselves. Lando doesn’t phrase it like that on camera, wise enough from McLaren press to know how innocent words get misconstrued. And then it is just the three of them.

It does feel like old times, coming through junior formula’s sort of memories. When they had been in the back of carpools and the odd hidden bits of garages the f2 teams had been allowed usage off. When there had been more togetherness and no complete team division. It’s the most-free George has allowed himself to be in a long time, no cameras. Just his two friends and a library of shitty steam games. And if Alex shares a bean bag with him, it’s not George’s place to complain. Only his place to measure the heat there sharing. Lando by virtue of being Lando has his heating turn up ridiculously hot. Alex had taken his sweater of pretty quickly, and George can see his scarf and coat abandoned on a chair. Lando sits, half hunched over his desk wrapped up in sweaters.

There is a long meandering path that leads from the Norris family home back to the main road. George has parked in the driveway, William’s doesn’t really have the budget for company cars, but Mercedes gifted him an older model anyways. He had parked it up next to Lando’s McLaren Senna and hadn’t even clocked the Aston Martin next to him. Lando see’s them out, Alex hovers his fingers by the car.

‘We should go for a walk before we go. I probably won’t see you before Christmas’

George finds he hates the way Alex says it with such finality. Like there’s no room for him anymore in Alex life. Maybe that footage of Lando telling Alex he had changed was true. But Alex is looking at him with the same smile.

‘I really don’t have your Christmas present though’

‘It’s okay, i’m not worried.’

The walk, in step with each other, nothing but the crunch of gravel and the sound of the world around them.

‘I’ve missed you a lot. You were in Abu Dhabi a long time. Been rough not being able to hang’

It’s not what George wants to talk about, but he knows he doesn’t know how to bring up the way he’s feeling.

‘Needed all the time in the Mercedes I could get. I think I deserve it after being passed who knows how many times’ he laughs out, but it feels hollow. The Mercedes had felt good, that’s not a lie.

There’s this air between them that isn’t normally there. George doesn’t know how to prod at it, break it down to something manageable. So like an idiot he finds the worst words possible slipping from his mouth.

‘Are we okay?’

But apparently Alex senses the weirdness too, which cuts George off from thinking anything but white noise when he watches Alex’s mouth say the words.

‘Lando asked me to kiss him’

He stops, and Alex stops too. They must make a funny picture, halfway down the Norris driveway, slightly wind swept and wrapped up in December English layers, all coats and scarves. The leaves left over from autumn roll over like dust dunes in cowboy movies. This is a standoff George thinks, and one of them has to draw first.

‘Did you?’

Alex laughs, his soft laugh.

‘He’d never been kissed. Did you know that George?’

The wind is howling in his ears, he could have sworn it wasn’t this strong three hundred metres or so ago when they were safe by their cars.

‘Did you kiss him Alex?’

Alex nods. George feels his heart start to break. He’s so far gone on the man in front of him, cruel of the world to only make him realise now.

‘Would you kiss me?’

He asks because he figures it’s his only chance.

So tangible in the air, George wants to grab his feelings down from where the threaten to rise up to the surface.

‘He said he wanted to kiss someone else, but he needed the practice. I volunteered. Nothing more, I think it might be Carlos he wants to kiss, or one of those mod-‘

‘Would you kiss me Alex?’

He thinks he might drop to his knees if Alex doesn’t stop his weird babble, the way Alex’s arms are reaching out to the air, gesturing with those long fingers.

‘I’m scared, if I kiss you George. That I might have to admit I love you’

Alex reaches out with his hand; George knows his palms are sweating through his gloves. That the other man isn’t even leaning in for a kiss, cruel that all the contact they will get as one, will be through a layer of wool he brought in Waterloo stations Marks and Spencers.

They walk back, it takes minutes, but he wants it to last forever.

There’s a sprig of mistletoe hastily attached to their respective car doors.

‘Kiss you idiots’ a voice shouts from the front door, Lando’s, before the door slams again.

‘Alex. We don’t have to. But I just want you to know I love you. And it changes nothing.’

‘This year’s been crazy for me, you get that right. I’m the boy that couldn’t until he could. Is it okay I might love you too?’

George slots himself against Alex. It’s not a kiss that takes anyone’s breath away or feels fireworks. In fact, it’s nothing to write home about. A kiss, just the push and pull of two mouths together. It’s the best kiss George has ever had. Tastes of Vaseline and Alex’s charcoal toothpaste. Burns inside him, all this emotion and infatuations he had built up for so long. There’s no height difference between them, so unlike all the girls (and one boy) he had kissed before, yet it feels natural to wrap a hand around Alex neck, and for Alex to push him up against his car. The cold of the Mercedes in December air is seeping through his coats, but Alex is like a fire in front of him. He wants to feel the tiny prickles of precisely shaved hair under his hand, wants to rip the glove off, rip everything off and just feel Alex. But he can’t because there necking in the Norris driveway.

‘Is this okay’ Alex pulls apart to say.

‘More than’ he finds his reply, as he leans their foreheads against each other.

He find’s a comfort, in the headlights of an Aston Martin that follows him home down country roads and motorways back to London. Alex looks different in the sickly glow of his apartment complex’s parking lot. But he’s here, in London.

Alex in George’s flat, free of any pretence. Drinking his herbal tea, sharing his space.

They fall into bed, awkward limbs and unsure kisses, nothing comes natural because it’s obvious from unspoken words and inferred from body language that this is all something new to the both of them.

Afterwards they lie, in the glow of the streetlight that peers into the bedroom, awash in LED white light, and balanced out by the glow of the eco-friendly bedside lamp.

George wants to study every part of Alex, learn all of him inside out. Kiss every part of him, hold hands and explore them forever. An Alex who is lying in the bed, tanned skin and strong collarbones, covers half off, exposing his defined torso, a slight dip and trail of hair leading underneath the duvet. George feels his cock start to harden again at the thought of Alex’s cock, spent and soft, but probably willing for another round. What better way to start mapping Alex’s body out than by sucking him off?

‘You don’t have to’

‘I want too. Is that okay?’

Alex’s hands tighten their grip in his hair. And that’s answer enough. Alex is so kind as well, to lend a hand to George as he jerks off while chasing the taste of Alex’s release in his mouth.

They were connected physically only a mere hour ago, but there’s something about this touching that is just as intimate, the way Alex’s torso looks beautiful, skin dark compared to the pearlescent white drops of George’s cum. George takes a mental snapshot, for him to re-watch over and over, and cleans the taste of himself off with his tongue.

Sleep is good and easy, they swap the spooning duties, and end up in a weird tangle of limbs. He wakes up to Alex staring at him intently, clearly the other man had won big spoon duties in the night.

‘I have your autograph on my wall, the first autograph you ever signed, did you know that’

George feels guilt eating away at him all of a sudden.

‘No, but I know the one you mean. I was thinking about that not long ago.’

‘Do you know where my half is?’ Alex wonders out loud.

‘It’s under my bed. I was afraid.’

He finds himself pausing, Alex shuffles and pulls him in closer. He’s practically saying the words into Alex’s skin now.

‘I was afraid if I had it in my hands, it would be proof to myself and to anyone that saw it that I was yours completely. That I am in love with you. Silly really’

‘Not silly’ Alex says, with his smile and morning breath.

‘Not silly at all.’

***

And that’s how Winter goes. Hurtling towards New Years and new promises, the deadline of January work commitments hollow background noise to the passion of the honeymoon phase.

They meet wherever and whenever they can, schedules shared and worked around. Stupid dates, George doesn’t realise the way they try to compact so many things into the tiny space between December and the oncoming year.

 ** _In London, last full moon of the decade? Got a roof and some blankets? You in?_** Alex texts one morning,

It’s his favourite date they have, London’s so light polluted, but the moon is there, hanging over them curled up in layers of blankets and big coats. More Marks and Spencer’s wool preventing their hands from touching one another, but they hold hands anyways.

‘That’s a shooting star’ he whispers, just because he knows it will wind Alex up.

‘It’s obviously a plane’

George finds it in himself to roll over and shut Alex up with cold lips.

They make it back to Alex’s flat not long after that, it takes forever for them warm up. Cold feet pressed against cool calves.

Maybe the cold feet should have been a sign.

George doesn’t know now, how he will come to reflect on everything. But that’s the thing about life, its either go for it or nothing will happen at all.

Ironic really, that they both end up where it all began under a month ago, at the Norris house on New Years Eve. The two of them, like a secret. Lando with his all-knowing eyes, shoving them into a closet five minutes before the fireworks go.

‘New Year’s kiss in secret’ he whispers, and it’s quite possibly the wisest thing George has ever seen Lando say or do.

There’s no light in the closet, just the glow of their watches, hands ticking down to midnight. Muffled music from Jools Holland next door, merging into the sound of Big Ben, steadily ticking down. The party outside counting. Five.. Four.. Three.. Two..

Alex’s lips press against his, pushing them up the closet wall.

‘Happy..mmf.. new year handsome’

They say, start the New Year how you mean to go on. And George want’s more than anything for his year to be nothing but the sound of fireworks and Alex’s body up against his. Eventually, two minutes into twenty twenty, they break apart to join the party. Crash in Lando’s room, all three of them in the bed.

‘Don’t do anything weird alright’

But George is too conked out on champagne and Alex’s kisses to respond to Lando, instead he just falls asleep in Alex’s arms.

New years day passes in a bubble, protected from the outer world. Lando wastes it away on iRacing and George finds him and Alex wasting it away walking down the gravel driveway, out into the countryside lanes. Crisp first of January air brakes over them. He can taste stale tea on his teeth. Wonders if he kisses Alex will Alex taste of stale coffee, or the salmon they had for breakfast.

‘This is nice. We should do this more’

George hears the static creep into his mind at Alex’s words, the anxiety he thought he had so recently conquered, slip into him again. Like a suit perfectly tailored, hanging in his wardrobe just waiting for the party. The party inevitably is his own self-destruction.

‘I guess we can’t when training starts. Unless you want to…’

Alex pauses on his own words, and George finds he wants to be anywhere than here. Rewind to last night pushed in closet and in love. Allowed to be. Maybe its for the best, he never knows what Alex is going to say, what the follow up was to wanting.

‘I love you. Is that good enough?’

‘Say facts and I’ll know it to be true’. Alex plays it off, as the humour that they have so settled into as friends for so many years.

‘I love you. Facts.’ George obliges, because there is nothing else, no other thing he wants more than to scream at the world, this one fact.

Alex stops them, hidden away on the roadside, by bushes with bare leaves and bird’s chirping a new song for a new year.

‘I love you too’

Everything chrysalises after that morning. They spend twenty days getting to know each other but knowing that every touch is futile. That it will count for naught so soon. Everything feels frantic, hurried even more so than before. George finds it harder to let his emotions bubble to the surface. But he cries himself to sleep, with Alex snoozing away in the crook of his arms, blissfully unaware. George can’t have Alex know; the way that ever kiss burns him. Sears a place in his memory and in his skin. Twenty days, going from house to flat and so on, hiding their love from everyone.

Not a single picture is taken, there is no digital memory to be stored. And on the day, they have to finally part, George is terrified that the last memory he will have of Alex as a lover, is the man standing on his front doorstep, Red Bull beanie pulled low, and suitcase in hand. Terrrified that the last memory will be a goodbye, and not the hundreds of hello's they had snuck in to the short time fate had allowed them.

***

Perhaps, George thinks, the worst part, is not the break-up of unspoken relationships. But the fact that they still have to act like George and Alex to the outside world. Joke about holidays and how they aren’t rookies anymore. Training goes past like hell. Claire looks at him, and he knows that some part of her worries. She’s so strong and a pioneer in spite of the family name, but she can’t suppress her motherly instinct. Claire orders him in for a meeting.

Instead of Claire behind the desk though, its Susie. And she tells him, in smiles and a warm voice. What it’s like to fall in love with someone else in this world of fast cars and no fixed addresses.

‘I understand George, why you can’t act on it. Change will come though. Even if you don’t spearhead the change.’

It takes him a long time to understand what she means, too late for him to salvage what he and Alex could have been though.

The girl is beautiful, pretty name and pretty career. Driven and funny. He falls in love with her as easily as he fell in love with Alex. They look perfect together, all Instagram perfection. George wonders if Alex has told her, what George was to him.

Australia goes well. Shockingly well, for Williams.

p14 for him and p16 for Nicholas feels good.

It can only get better.

Alex invites him out for dinner post race and when he turns up and Lily is there, he’s not surprised or resigned. In fact, he finds himself scared by how comfortably okay he is with things. Maybe the high of nearly touching the points has gotten to him. The two balance of each other so well, George doesn’t question how they met. How Alex had supposedly moved on so fast after whatever the month of time they had spent together was. Instead, he pulls her aside after the meal.

‘Take care of him alright, he’s my best friend, the best guy I know’

Her laugh is cute, ‘It’s okay George. I’ll do my best’ she gives him a salute.

***

He sits in the Mercedes garage, tanned skin from Greek holidays looking foreign in the Mercedes racing suit. Funny how the summer break had mirrored Alex’s summer break from just a season before. As if he knows George has allowed a rare thought of the other man to cross his mind, Alex appears in the doorway of the Motorhome.

‘Big boy boots now Mr Russell. You ready to score points?’

‘Just for two races. Valtteri will be fit again then’

George find’s himself putting the mask of indifference on. He knows this can’t be permanent, he hasn’t earnt the Mercedes drive, no number of laps on an empty track have awarded him with this oh holiest of seats. Just the unfortunate luck of Valtteri straining his leg, Mercedes failing to replace Ocon as reserve and Toto making the overriding call to put Esteban Gutiérrez in the William’s.

Alex looks glorious, the Red Bull suit still perfect and more fitting than the colours of Toro Rosso ever were. Fate had pulled some funny cards for both of them.

‘Would you sign this. I want the first autograph from Mercedes driver George Russell’

He obliges, with a flourish, it’s a ratty piece of paper, much like its counterpart from so long ago.

‘Here’s mine, sorry it’s a lowly Alex Albon from Red Bull autograph’

‘I’ll treasure it forever. Alex Albon from Red Bull’ George says, and finds the words are sincere.

He understands what Susie meant all those months ago. In that moment, looking up at Alex in the dark blue against the white walls. He wishes he hadn’t been a coward. But time cannot travel backwards, and the wound has already started to cauterize.

George find’s his next words are for his closure,

‘I love you. Safe race alright’

‘Only if you say facts will I believe you’ Alex smiles as he turns out the room.

And so, what if everyone stares at George yelling ‘facts’ at the retreating back of his opponent.

Closure tastes like champagne, a finish in the points and the smiling face of the man he once loved, and will forever love, looking up at him from the throng of the people on the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://www.tororuhroh.tumblr.com)


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